The Fall
by ViolinRemix
Summary: Set during and after the Fall episode, John struggles with the loss of his best friend...


The Fall

And he fell.

Sherlock tumbled through the air. John forced himself to watch, he wasn't going to deny his friend's last request.

Then he was running. Running to be by his side, to hold hid hand, _to bring him back. _He kneeled at his side as people began to gather around the body 'Sherlock' he whispered 'Sherlock, please' his voice was hoarse, though from what he wasn't sure. He heard sirens, they vaguely registered as "Police" somewhere in the back of his mind, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was lying in front of him. Motionless, bloodied; yet somehow still mysterious. _With his cheekbones and turned up collar. _John shook, controlling his tears; this wasn't the time to cry. Someone grabbed at his shoulders, trying to tear him away from the fallen corpse; John pulled back, he was not going to let go of his friend's hand. Not now. Not ever.

'Sherlock' he whispered again 'Please...don't so this to me. Don't leave me here'

He kissed him on the forehead, he tasted the blood on his lips. Tears streamed from his eyes.

Someone again tried to pull him away, this time he complied and was led away by the grey haired detective. Lestrade walked with him to the ambulance, saying nothing. John was glad, he didn't need the words right now. He sat in the back of the emergency vehicle and someone tried to give him a bright orange blanket, he shrugged it off immediately. 'John' said Lestrade 'It's for the...' he trailed off as he realised what he was about to say, he swallowed and walked away.

John was left in his grief. It felt as though a part of him had died. He was never going to see him again. He was never going to hear the violin played at three in the morning, he was never going to find eyeballs in their rightful place in the microwave, he was never going to run through the streets of London chasing criminals. Never again would he awake to find the most extraordinary man pacing about the sitting room with nicotine patches on his arm, nose in the air, solving a case. He was never going to be with him again.

Something warm fell over his shoulders. His first attempt was to shrug, as he assumed it was another blanket, then he saw the colour. It was dark. It was a jacket. It was _the _jacket. The turned up collar, dark mysterious jacket. He looked up, Lestrade smiled at him 'I think this is yours now'

John simply nodded.

Someone called Lestrade's name. He left John in the jacket, and as he walked away John heard the young detectivesaying 'That jacket's _evidence_ Lestrade, you can't just give it away'

'Do you know who that jacket belonged to?'

'No sir'

'Do you know who that man is?'

'No sir'

'That man there is John Watson. The jacket he's wearing belonged to Sherlock Holmes. Those two men are the greatest men to ever grace the Earth with their presence, you will leave that man be, Detective, he's been through enough' And with that he walked off, leaving the detective in a state of awe.

John buried himself in the jacket. Trying to loose himself in the scent of Sherlock Holmes, to make it better, to do something, to lose himself in the memories never to return. He couldn't face this reality, a world without the great Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't possible.

The following weeks were hard. Especially on Mrs. Hudson, everytime she saw John he was wrapped up in Sherlock's jacket. He refused food, water, conversation, any form of human contact was out of the question. Eventually she just let him be, hoping he'd pull himself out of this black depression. He did, like the soldier he was trained to be, he pushed on. He started eating again, having conversations, he even started helping Lestrade with a few cases, nothing too much of course, but it gave him something to do.

Six months later there was a knock at the door. 'Yes' called John, typing on his blog

'Still blogging John? What else happens these days?' came a startling familiar voice

John didn't dare look up 'You're dead'

'Really?'

John felt a hand on his shoulder. He still didn't look up. 'Yes, you're dead. I went to your funeral'

'As did I. Very morbid, quite dull really'

Another hand rested on the other shoulder. John refused the urge again 'What the hell are you doing here?'

'I thought you would have wanted to see me'

'Right. And exactly when were you planning on telling me that you hadn't died?' the anger now rising in his voice

'Now. I'm telling you now. I did leave you a note' The hands slipped off his shoulders

'This isn't the kind of thing...you didn't leave a note' John's anger now subsided with curiosity. He still didn't look behind him.

'Yes I did. Are you telling me you didn't find it?'

John sighed. 'No, I didn't find it, where was it?'

'I'm surprised, I thought you were smarter than that, I mean, even Anderson would have been able to find my note. Honestly John, what have you been up to?'

'Grieving'

There was no response.

'So where was it then?'

'On my bed'

'I couldn...didn't go into your bedroom after you died'

John heard footsteps leaving to the bedroom, opening the door and returning. A spindly hand dropped the letter in front of him.

"_Goodbye John. See you later"_

John turned and looked at the face he had longed to see for all these months.

There was Sherlock Holmes.

Returned.


End file.
